The Nitrogen Murder(92)

Yes, but I’d better not say. “Nothing at the moment, thank you,” I said, and left the room.



“Robin flipped on Julia,” Matt said, pouring us ordinary coffee in Elaine’s kitchen. The one without an espresso maker. “Julia’s being charged with a number of counts of theft, drug-dealing, fraud.”

“So Robin is free and clear?” Not exactly a whine, but close.

“Free and clear. In the other matter, Howard Christopher is being charged with two counts of murder, one attempted.”

“That ‘attempted’ is for Phil, right?” I asked, meaning, You didn’t tell Russell about the shot fired at me, did you?

“For Phil, yes,” Matt said, frowning. Neither of us wanted to talk out loud about the bullet that passed way over my head.

“I’ll bet Christopher gets a better deal than Julia gets,” I said. “They’ll want all the details of the information that got leaked.”

“Same reason cops make deals every day,” Matt said. “Damage control. You want to know the big picture. In this case, what did they sell to whom, and for how long?”

“And that’s the message we’re sending. You can beat a murder charge if you’ve also been involved in selling government secrets.”

Matt gave me a that’s-life shrug. Sometimes I was happy that I hadn’t spent my career as a cop.

“In any case, Russell seemed to like Christopher for Patel and Tanisha. He thought it seemed likely Christopher assumed the duffel bag might have something that incriminated him.”

“Why wouldn’t Russell tell me all this?” I asked.

“It’s a cop thing.”

Oh, well, I thought, a person didn’t have to like all cop things to marry one.





CHAP TER THIRTY-ONE

Matt and I spent a good part of the next week shopping for our wedding present of choice for Elaine and Phil—the most up-to-date espresso/cappuccino maker in Berkeley.

“Almost as pleasant as searching scientific supplies catalogs,” I told Matt.

We decided against a bronze model with a mythical bird on top. Matt liked a tall, old-fashioned tower arrangement topped off by an Italian glass dome, but we settled on a squat black version that would blend in with the modern Cody/Chambers kitchen. It was labeled “semiautomatic,” and Matt enjoyed pointing out that espresso makers, like weapons, came in automatic, semiautomatic, and manual models.

“It has a three-way solenoid valve,” I said.

“That should do it,” Matt said.

I didn’t tell him it also reminded me of a fast servo tool I’d seen in a precision engineering magazine.

We bought the package that included a pound of special beans each month for a year. Expensive, but we meant it as combination hostess, shower, and wedding present, with maybe an apology thrown in.

“We can deliver it at the shower on Thursday evening,” I said.

“We?”

“Wedding showers are not just for girls anymore.”

“That’s a shame.”





Dana seemed excited about hosting the shower for Elaine and Phil, whose doctors declared him ready for anything he thought he could handle. She’d enlisted the help of some friends: her noncriminal roommate, Jen Bradley, who wore a tiny white apron (“I’m here to serve,” she announced); Jen’s boyfriend, Wes, who plied his short-order-cook trade for our benefit (no on cucumber sandwiches, but yes on man-sized pesto-stuffed mushrooms); and a young, petite EMT, Melissa (who seemed thrilled to be included and allowed to fill coffee cups and collect dirty plates).

It was obvious Dana had cleaned and rearranged things for the occasion. The moving boxes were gone or hidden, the floor vacuumed, and fresh flowers placed on every available surface. The wall that usually supported two bikes was now covered by a stack of presents; the bikes had been moved out of the way into the hallway off the kitchen.

Besides Matt, Phil, and Wes, there were a number of other men present, evening out the population to ten and ten. I was happy to reconnect with some BUL acquaintances I hadn’t seen in a long time, most of them part of a group of editors and graphic artists Elaine worked with.

“How’s retirement, Gloria? Any new hobbies?” a woman I recognized as an editor asked. She didn’t know me well enough to realize I had no old hobbies.

I smiled, calling up the expression I use on small-talk occasions. “I’m keeping busy,” I said.

I caught Matt’s grin.

I had a flashback to the wedding showers of my college days. All girls, silly games, pink- or (the more creative ones) yellow-and-white crepe paper, doll-sized food, and too much giggling over filmy sleepwear and sexy (we wouldn’t have said that word) lingerie. I remembered once having to make as many words as possible from the letters in HERE COME THE BRIDE AND GROOM. The first on my list had been BORING.